


Alme

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry, Far Cry 3
Genre: Age Difference, Apartheid, Bambi "Buck" Hughes (Mentioned Only), Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Classical References, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Romantic, Declarations Of Love, F/M, French Literature References, Hostage Situations, Human Trafficking, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, Love at First Sight, Macabre, Master/Slave, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Organized Crime, Piracy, Praise Kink, References To Apartheid, Sexual Slavery, Slave Trade, Soul Bond, Soul Bonds Without Marks, Soulmates, Stockholm Syndrome, Vaas Montenegro - Freeform, Victor Hugo References, Weapons, Yandere, literature references, modern Pirates, posessive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Hoyt meets a woman.





	Alme

_-“If he had had all of Peru in his pocket, he would certainly have given it to this dancer; but Gringore had not Peru in his pocket; and besides, America was not yet discovered. (p. 66)”-_  
― Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoyt Volker never believed in the idea of soulmates, in all honesty.  
Neither figurative, nor literal - the thought always striked him as particularly sappy.  
Something these Rakyat savages would built their entire wretched society around - not him.  
Not something bred of logic or calculation or intuition or even common sense - just plain gooseshit.  
Nobody was meant for nobody - attraction, even at it's very peak, was fleeting, short and a passing thing.  
Akin to a drunken, sloppy one-night stand shag in some back-alley seedy, neon-lit motel in downtown Bangkok.  
Seems good at the moment maybe, but the minute you both wake up (or all four of you, who was he to judge?)  
It would no doubt lead to socialization and mutual awkwardness best left totally avoided - also, STDs.  
A copious, grandiose amount of STDs and various illness - stubborn, itchy and hard to be rid of.  
Most likely to lead to a very profoundly prolonged, painful and uncomfortable death.  
And oh, did he ever knew everything there was to know about inflicting pain.

 

 

 

Soulmates were just like that to him - a sickness best preventable with needle-point.

Love too.

Heroin often made these delusions go away - like bleach washing out a stain of blood.

 

 

 

 

So, when Vaas, in his infinite wisdom, and yes, that was sarcasm, brought about a rag-tag group of newly arrived cargo for inspection, killing at least several in the process due to various misunderstandings, idiocy, mistreatment and negligence all alike, as always wasting him profit and testing his nerves like he always did on a day-to-day basis - few of which died from dehydration, heat-strokes and malnourishment, Hoyt was already skeptical about this batch lined up on a makeshift wooden paneled stage - batch eighteen - the eighteenth that arrived on the island this season - they were picked off from some third-rate international cruiser that was purposefully besieged and crashed - cooks and chefs and cleaners and deck-boys and commonplace attendants and guests on a budget, probably saving up all their lives to treat themselves to this vacation - the working man's indeed a sucker - scared and doddering and unsure of themselves and very much unremarkable pieces - Hoyt liked them pedigreed - he could smell when someone was born into money just by looking at them - there was something the cheekbones - the way they spoke - they way they smelled - their hands chiseled, smooth and tender to the touch, signifying that they never worked a day in their lives - it was a talent of sorts, one he was proficient in - to spot who was most eligible for the blackmail - for the extortion - who's mommies and daddies were willing to pay in the millions in ransom to see their sweet little angels unharmed again - these wretches, he didn't know what to do with them. Other then to kill them.

 

 

 

The occasionally tolerable piece, sent off to work in a local brothel.  
A barmaid, a field-hand, amusement for his soldiers.  
Someone to work his opium plantations.  
A fodder for Vaas' shenanigans.  
Disposable muscle or a sweeper of floors.  
A breeder, if one his men had a preferable desire to knock these bitches up.  
If he was feeling particularly ill of will, someone to amuse Hughes and fetch him his beer bottles.  
And that, knowing him for as long as he did was as cruel as he could get without outright burning someone in a heat-box.

 

 

 

Or picking them apart with a hunting knife, like some prime piece of meat, and let them die for days.

 

He knew how to prolong these things - unlike classifying slaves - with that, he could tell the rotten ones from the quality ones in a mere instant.

 

 

 

_-"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit with bad posture. Bad teeth. Vaas, how many times do I have to tell you - rejects, that way - the good ones, this way! I don't want my good apples getting mixed up with this - kak."-_

 

 

 

He was going through them one by one, disinterested and openly unimpressed, never detaining himself with each individual exhibit for more then thirty seconds because he didn't care and he wasn't about to pretend he was, especially not with Vaas' lack of rational thought and professionalism, not that he ever had much of that - gripping their face, turning it left and right to check for any blemishes, scars, acne or birthmarks that could potentially lower his price, forcing their mouth open to see their line of pearly-whites and looking for rotten, blackened pieces on the inside, the profile of their nose, whether straight or crooked - casting a quick glance at their body hoping it's not too terribly repulsive upon sight and then he was moving on - being mundane and utilitarian wasn't good for sales - people didn't want to buy mundane pieces - like with a fine piece of art, nobody wants to buy a boring, unremarkable, unspectacular painting to hang on their wall - if his customers wanted someone who looks like their used-up, tired, nagging old wife a hundred pounds overweight and greying, their middle-aged, first door neighbor or their greasy local mechanic, they wouldn't be seeking him out, of all people - they would just try some seedy dating site or a cheap hooker on the block instead - then again, Hoyt wasn't about to dispute people's preferences, but most individuals that came to him wanted them young and pretty and nimble and clean and fertile, in some way or other, pleasing to the eye, someone they would never, ever, ever have a shot with otherwise - seems that everyone in the world had that in common when it comes to sex;

 

 

 

Beauty and purity.  
The most marketable two traits.  
Capitalism - supply and demand - simple as.  
Universally - ever since the dawn of time, in every culture and society, if he had to be overly philosophical.

 

 

 

_-"Okay, boss. Okay. Alright. Whatever you say. Pues, ni modo! Some of them are young. Shame to put a bullet in their head. Might be useful. Pussy's still pussy. Doesn't matter where it comes from, hermano."-_

 

 

 

Vaas chimed in, following in his footsteps.  
Managing to sound both semi-apologetic and entirely careless.  
Like he was justifying himself purely out of routine and not because he actually cared.  
Like this was some sort of raggedy, hand-me-down, shanty establishment they were running.  
Seems that he needed to go harder on the boy in the future avoid screw-ups like this.  
Cocking his gun and preparing to pick off and clean all the one's Hoyt's passed.  
Sure, they all struggled and screamed and cried and begged him for mercy.  
Carried off by the pirates by force, bound and gagged afterwards.  
Really, it was their own fault were tedious-looking and ugly.  
If anything, a lovely face would've ensured their survival.  
And all they'd have to do is wet a few cocks and be done.

 

 

 

Hoyt could think of worse fates - much, much worse.

 

 

 

 

 

_-"We have a standard and a reputation to uphold with our product! I could sell anyone, yes! But, the question is - do I really want to sell just about anyone? Imagine buying a weapon, Vaas! Would you invest in just any rusted old contraption smuggled off some post-war metal-scrap junkyard or would you only pay for one that's actually of some worth!? Might be difference between life and death for you, when it comes down to it and -"-_

 

 

 

Hoyt practically shouted him down at that point, wiggling his finger at him without maintaining direct eye contact, keeping his gaze at the task at hand, well-aware that he was preaching and not giving a rat's ass if he was - but some people - these kids nowadays didn't have a passion or knack for business anymore - they were lazy - they half-assed it - they were rash and brash - they were immensely uninspired - lacked motivation of any kind - they were convinced they could just take any human wreckage, stamp a price on it and try and haggle for it like it's the real deal and get away with it, hoping to make a million-dollar profit overnight barely doing anything and it was almost like an insult to any decade-old veteran in his position who honed his work-ethic and habits to perfection, practically able to imagine the vacant, glum stare Vaas was pinning into his back like a needle at the moment, his mouth a firm line, just taking the reprimand there and then - and then it hit him mid-sentence like a block of bricks - he's mixed up a young one with all these sad, seasick, trembling fools who still reeked of fish and leaking oil fuel and the burning metal-carcass they were taken from - the end of the line, Hoyt stopped in his tracks, cutting himself off and stumbling into a sudden silence, throwing a curious look back to Montenegro, uncertain if he should keep scolding him for making yet another mistake or feel pleased that his time wasn't entirely wasn't having to go through the rejects personally - a pale, tall blonde. He's seen pale, tall blondes before, some memorable, some, not so much - that wasn't entirely the issue. A man in his business sees everything and anything.

 

 

It was something else.  
And he didn't have a name for it quite yet.

 

 

 

 

_-"What's this one doing here?"-_

 

 

 

He questioned simply, annoyance and genuine curiosity mingling.  
Pointing at her as if to emphasis who he really meant, even though it was rather obvious.  
Something stood out then - maybe the fact that she looked almost pitifully darling.  
Seeming too proud to prostitute herself and too fragile to working on a ship.  
A bold defiance there, like she'd work that ship out of sheer silent spite.  
Purely because she didn't want anyone to touch or have her, uninvited.  
The type of face he would like to squeeze in a flash of endearment.  
Violent tenderness - purely to better imagine - visualize  
What it would be like if she mewled out-loud.  
With her eyes popping out it's sockets under his touch.  
Her head nothing but a pulpy, shattered mess once he's done with her.  
Big, black eyes, with no reflection in their depth - like Bambi's from the Disney schlock Vaas liked so much.

 

 

 

 

Hoyt smiled at the scene - gorgeous.

Catching himself momentarily and almost wondering where the intrusive-thought came from.

Taking another long, languid inhale of his cigar and not minding one bit he was caught staring.

The color of one's lips was made from the same fleshy substance one's nipples would've been.

 

 

 

And hers were a pastel, rosy, reddish sort of pink.

 

 

 

 

_-"No tengo ni idea, coño! She was always here! The fuck do I know - qué carajo - ni qué nada! -_

 

 

 

Vaas, visibly irritated at this point, spread his arms in self-defense, muttering his curses in Spanish.  
Trying to discuss the mistake of misplacement of goods between his posse of hushed, huddled-together pirates.  
Leaving Hoyt to consider the long-list of his conquests so far, at least when it came to women alone.  
They came in all colors - the most prominent being that of a deeper pigmentation, like himself.  
Africa was always dark - so he found himself leaning towards said darkness over the years.  
The Apartheid didn't make chasing pussy of certain shades profitable or worth the risk.  
He wasn't going to land himself in jail for anything less then being what he was now.  
But, times have changed and his predisposition has changed - there was no law here.

 

 

No law but his own.

And he intended to do as he pleased.

Checking through the ID, wallet and documentation Vaas promptly handed him to clear up the situation.

 

 

 

Alme - her name was Alme.

 

A - L - M - E.

 

He tested the set of four letters with his clicking tongue like he would've a dosage of some old, expensive whiskey.

 

 

 

 

_-"Ja, ja. Good! Did you know that in 40 AD, Emperor Caligula passed a law that had every Roman prostitute dye her hair golden to - well - distinguish them from all the virtuous, humble, dark-haired ladies of the era? It backfired. Made blonde hair even more desirable. So desirable in fact, that they started making wigs from the hair of conquered barbaric European women. Celts! The Nordics! Gauls! Slavs! Much like yourself, it seems. Habits never change. They just adapt."-_

 

 

 

 

Hoyt grinned speaking with a all-too familiar edge he didn't know the origins of - catching himself trying to charm her as he held unto what seemed like her passport - she wasn't leaving any time soon if he had a say in it, so far from civilization, the authorities, borders, the coastal guard or international waters - going into a history lesson and feeling the an embodiment of Buck for a brief blip, wondering how he went from scolding Vaas a second ago to making pleasantries with a stranger on a stockade just a while later, feeling like Pierre Gringore must've felt the first time he laid eyes of Esmeralda, feeling his love of the occasional literary classic coming in handy to make that comparison - Hoyt had the tendency to turn on his likeability factor, especially when dealing with a customer, an associate, a like-minded individual, someone he could make a good deal with here and there - never exactly with someone they caught like this, not even recalling how the conversation ended or if she even responded with something in the first place - maybe spat into his face and try to play rebellious like all these cockroaches did only to be silenced with the back-end of someone's rifle to the mug - but, the next thing he knew, they were in his private compound apartment together - admittedly something of a several hour ride across the bay that separated his and Vaas' island, completely erased from memory - even he had to piss and shit and sleep and eat somewhere contrary to popular belief - he practically sat her down on the first flat surface he didn't even bother checking the minute they were left alone by his privateers and body guards, gripping her face between the palms of his hands from both sides and making her look at him. He would've pulled a knife to her chest to threaten her if she wasn't willing to comply, but seems like just a stare of his was enough.

 

 

 

What he asked of her surprised even him.

Usually, he would've forced her head down and pushed his cock down her throat.

Leaving her a sobbing, ruined mess on the floor and then have her thrown out of his bunker.

But, now?

 

 

_-"I love you."-_

 

 

She whimpered quietly, semi-uncertain, compelled to speak.

 

 

_-"Say it again."-_

 

 

He urged on, demanding, putting his fingers around her neck and squeezing, only ever-so-slightly.

 

 

_-"I love you."-_

 

 

She repeated, this time with more gusto, louder, like the metaphorical frog realizing the temperature in the water bowl is slowly rising before the inevitable cooking.

 

 

_-"And again."-_

 

 

He instructed, observing her lips as they parted for breath, uncertain if they'll ever inhale and exhale oxygen again in the off-change that he chokes her to death - she didn't know him or his intentions, after all.

 

 

_-"I love you."-_

 

 

She added without restraint, this time, almost sounding like she really meant it, filling Hoyt with a tingle of undeniable pleasure when he admitted it to himself that he's rarely ever head those words from anyone during these four decades of being alive, even his own parents and especially not from his father and that yes - it felt good - it felt nice - like seldom anything did - maybe, a flawless tell in poker, or lighting a celebratory Cohiba after a particularly profitable batch, a line of exceptionally quality cocaine - some old liqueur that stood in waiting in some cellar for thirty years before anyone's ever tasted it for some special occasion - that's it - that's as close as he'd come to comparing it, wondering suddenly, in a flash of irony if this was what love and soulmates felt like?

 

 

Good, warm, certain and - so, so very full?

Hoyt couldn't tell - except that he smiled to himself, wanting more, starved.

 

 

 

_-"I don't recall giving you permission to stop."-_

 

 

 

He reminded her to thread-lightly, less angry about her pausing and more sing-songy, almost as if toying with her when the after-mentioned, figurative knife he was imagining almost landed in his grip as a way to make her say the words to him once again, even if by force, his infamous fear tactics and coercion, almost intending to just let Vaas handle his own weight for the evening out on the beaches while he just stays here, locked in his compound, having the prey he just stumbled upon by almost sheer accident keep rewinding her little song to him until the break of dawn - Hoyt wasn't certain if he found some twisted satisfaction in getting someone to say that they loved him as a way to humiliate, condition and fuck with them or if he genuinely enjoyed the sensation that went along with the idea - wondering still if he was going through some bad trip, withdrawal, faulty attempt at sobering the lack of sleep to have him to indulge something like this - but, he'd compare his sudden fixation on addiction - the more you give the body, the more it craves and needs - he found himself in the same predicament - now practically sitting on his lap with her hands around his neck - probably looking like a pair of dummkopfs, the velvety black of night long since enveloping the jungle vista spreading on the premises through a barred window - perfect, in the off chance the blonde ever tries escaping, she spoke once more;

 

 

 

_-"I love you."-_

 

 

A whisper fell like a string of broken pearls, her face barely visible from the shadows of the room and an array of expensive, ornamental Zulu tribal mask on the walls he's brought over from Johannesburg when he first moved here with his men, almost a decade ago - a hidden, tiny tid-bit inside of him hoping she'll like the furnishing and the choice of decor, considering he intended her to stay here - Hoyt was aware he wasn't a generous, agreeable man and that he most usually wouldn't have given a rat's ass what some paltry, two-piece broad picked from all those filthy rejects had to say about any of this, starting from his furniture design and downright to the idea of consent beyond his own, personal needs at the moment, almost musing if Vaas slipped something into his drink or spiked his Cuban tobacco while he was over on his end of the island as an elaborate prank - he and his painted witch of sister shared their heritage after all and you couldn't trust a damn savage for the life of you, even when tamed and reformed - never holding much belief in the idea of love at first sight - or second - or third - or fourth - or fifth - but, here and now, he felt oddly content for basically no reason other then being content and him demanding of Alme to say that she loves him, possibly for the fifty time at this point - selfish and as a greedy and as self-aware about it as ever - felt almost as natural as breathing air or killing or fucking or flipping through stacks of money that he, there and then, did it once again without thinking, impulsively - he's heard of men having a thing for this kind of thing, but it always felt like a sort of a distant, illusive, strange thing - distant as Bangkok was from the shores of this archipelago - close enough to sail, far enough to be out of sight, through the ocean mists;

 

 

Was it fun or just funny?

Or something else?

 

 

 

 

_-"Continue."-_

 

 

 

 

He pressed on and she obeyed - briefly having him wondering what she tastes like.

By the time they stopped, it must've been eight in the morning.


End file.
